


The Club

by wingedcatninja



Series: SPN Kink Bingo 2020 [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bondage, Bottom Dean Winchester, Corporal Punishment, Dean discovers a new kink, Discipline, Exhibitionism, F/M, Femdom, Impact Play, Smut-adjacent, Sub Dean, Sub!Dean, Submissive Dean Winchester, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2020, no coitus in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedcatninja/pseuds/wingedcatninja
Summary: On the third Thursday of every month, since she moved into the Bunker, she disappears without any explanation. Usually, she is back by noon the next day. Dean is curious, and maybe a little bit suspicious, and follows her once. What he finds is not at all what he expected.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/You
Series: SPN Kink Bingo 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612531
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020





	The Club

**Author's Note:**

> The muse works in mysterious ways. This one just came to me, I sat down and started writing and just kept going until it was finished. I apologize for nothing.
> 
> Square Filled ([@spnkinkbingo](http://spnkinkbingo.tumblr.com/)): Corporal Punishment

The sound of her motorcycle had barely disappeared up the tunnel from the bunker garage when Dean was in the driver’s seat, following. The tunnel was made for vehicles smaller than his Baby, so he always had to be careful going up. By the time he was on the road, her tail light was barely visible up ahead. 

Using the tracking app that Sam had shown him, Dean tracked the spare cell phone he had hidden in her duffel the day before. By the time he caught up, her bike was parked around the side of what looked like nothing more than an abandoned warehouse. There was a smattering of parked cars in the empty lot across the street, and Dean pulled up and parked among them. 

A single lamp on the wall above an unremarkable door was the only light source for two blocks. Dean sat in the car for a good five minutes, struggling with his conscience. His curiosity finally won out. The gravel of the empty lot crunched under his weight; there would be no sneaking up here. His fingers brushed over the reassuring weight of the gun at the small of his back before stepping into the light.

The door had no markings of any kind, not even a ‘Keep Out’-sign. Dean tried it and found it unlocked. When he pulled it open, a muffled steady bass beat could be heard. The short corridor on the other side of the door was painted black, the walls gleaming dully in the light of the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. At the other end was another door, this one with one of those small hatches. When he tried it, he found it locked. The hatch slapped open, a pair of eyes that looked black in the low light staring at him. 

“Show’s already started,” a gruff voice told him. Presumably, the voice that was attached to the eyes.

The somewhat cryptic statement confused Dean for a moment. The owner of the eyes apparently interpreted his blank stare as a reason to open the door. It swung inward. 

The muffled beat resolved into music, some tune that was unfamiliar to Dean. A disembodied hand waved him forward and he went through the door. The hand turned out to be attached to the same body as the eyes - a burly guy who's short, spiky hair almost brushed the ceiling. The guy pointed a meaty thumb, indicating which direction Dean should go.

He nodded at the guy, because it seemed like the polite thing to do, and proceeded further into the building. The space just inside the door held a stool, maybe for the big guy to sit on. To one side was an open area, apparently for holding coats. A girl dressed in a burlesque gown leaned against the wall, watching him. He chose to keep his jacket on if only to better conceal the gun at the small of his back.

Past the coat check space, he went through an open doorway and found himself in what must be the main area of the strangest club he had ever seen. At first glance, it looked like a jumble of functional industrial and plush gentleman’s club. The center of the room was taken up by a dance floor, which was filled with people. Around the dance floor were stainless steel high tables. Farther back were regular low tables with matching stainless steel chairs that looked utterly uncomfortable. Farthest from the dance floor, around the walls, were booths that looked like they might be real leather. Along the wall to his left was a long bar, and at the back of the space, at the far end of the dance floor, was a stage.

The music volume was not too loud, and he could even make out the soft murmur of conversations from the people on the dance floor. None of whom were dancing, Dean realized. Continuing into the room, he saw what they were all looking at. 

On the stage was what might have been an extra sturdy dance pole. This one had cuffs attached to the top though. A naked man was locked into the cuffs, his back to the audience. His ankles were cuffed as well, to some kind of bar that held his legs apart. On the other side of the man, mostly hidden from view, was a woman. All Dean could see of her was that she was dressed in leather and high heeled boots. She appeared to be speaking to the cuffed man. Then she stepped out into full view and Dean felt like he had been kicked in the gut.

It was her. 

Unable to move, Dean watched her accept a short whip from someone in front of the stage. Her hands ran over it, inspecting the leather. She cracked it in the air once, making both the cuffed man and Dean flinch at the sound. 

“It has been decided! Thirty lashes!” Her voice rang out through the room, clearly audible even at the back where Dean was. 

He could feel the excitement from the audience and could not help but be affected by it. His eyes were riveted to her, as was every other pair of eyes in the room. The braided leather flew through the air and connected with the poor guy’s back with a crack. There was a collective gasp from the audience that almost drowned out the guy’s moan of pain. The spotlights directed at the stage perfectly showed the single red welt that ran diagonally across the guy’s left shoulder blade.

After each stroke of the whip, there was a soft murmur among the audience. Dean registered it only peripherally, his attention focused on her. She dominated the stage. She held the audience in thrall with her performance. And it was a performance. She played that poor guy like an instrument, drawing sounds from him like a virtuoso. Dean had to remind himself to breathe. 

As the last lash fell, several cries of “Thirty!” went up from the audience; breathless cries that sounded suspiciously like moans. The guy’s back was crisscrossed with welts, yet none of them had broken the skin. Dean was impressed with her precision. He watched her help another woman up on stage, handing her the whip. His eyes followed her when she went to the side of the stage and down some steps. She might have been lost in the crowd then, except the crowd parted for her like the Red Sea before Moses. He was able to watch her progress through the crowd, occasionally stopping to greet someone with a hug, or a handshake. By the time she made it to the bar, the crowd had dispersed, leaving only a few scattered people on the dance floor.

Dean slid backward into the shadow of a pillar, still watching her. He wanted to stay out of sight because he had no good explanation for his presence there. When her head was turned, talking to people, Dean slipped back through the doorway, past the coat check girl, past the bouncer, and back outside.

The cold air pinched his cheeks while he hurried across the street to the dark empty lot. In the driver’s seat, he sat for a minute just breathing, trying to sort through his thoughts and impressions. He very firmly shoved his emotions into a box, shoved the box to the very back of his mind and then stacked other boxes on top of it just for good measure. 

Clearly what she was doing was no threat to any of them, so he should just drop it and never bring it up again. Dean nodded to himself, determined to stick to his decision. Never mind that he had to adjust himself before he could start the car and head towards home.

* * *

A month later, Dean left before her. He parked the Impala at the very back of the empty lot, where there was no chance she would see the car and recognize it. He spoke to no one inside, only sat down at the table farthest from the stage. A girl dressed exactly like the coat check girl silently set a glass of water in front of him and quickly retreated back to the bar. Dean pushed the glass aside and waited.

This time, she wore a sleeveless black sheath dress and black strap sandals with four-inch heels. The victim this time was a woman, Dean registered. Yet he found himself unable to appreciate the naked female, only having eyes for her. Again she was handed an implement from someone in the audience, this time a leather strap about two inches wide. Aside from lacking holes, it might have been a wide belt. 

Once again Dean was affected by the energy of the audience. He found himself gasping along with them, caught up in the performance. This time, when the show was over, he stayed a little longer, confident that he was sufficiently hidden in the shadows. He watched her hold court at the bar for a while. Unexpectedly, she disappeared somewhere behind the stage with a pretty brunette. Dean waited a good ten minutes before giving up. As quietly as he had entered, he exited and drove home. 

It was close to dawn when he heard her door close, signaling that she had returned. Dean stomped on the damn box of emotions.

* * *

A month went by. Dean struggled daily with his conscience. Every time they passed each other in the Bunker, he felt heat flush his cheeks. He tried to act natural, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

He looked up the club online. He went back on a night when she was not performing. He left feeling disappointed, and unable to pinpoint why. He looked up porn that featured impact play and corporal punishment, but it just was not the same. He started to spend most of his time in the gym when he was not hiding in his room. Sam commented on his shifty behavior, but Dean just shrugged it off. 

He was in the gym when he heard the door close and the lock click. Looking up from the sandbag, he saw her lean against the closed door, arms crossed. Dean felt the now-familiar heat in his cheeks and cursed silently. Turning back to the sandbag, he went back to punching it.

“What’s up?” His voice was strained, but he still tried for nonchalant.

“Funny, that was gonna be my question to you.” Her response was sharp enough to make him stop and look at her.

“Yeah?” They both might know where this conversation was going, but he was not going to make it easy for her.

“Yeah. For weeks now you’ve been acting cagey, and you’ve been avoiding me. Sam and I both noticed. So, what’s going on, Dean?” Her tone told him that she was not going to give up until she had answers.

Dean stalled by spending a few minutes on undoing the gloves and unwrapping his hands to avoid looking at her. When he finally looked back up, she was still leaning against the door, arms crossed, except now she looked pissed.

“Yeah, ok, you’re right, I’ve been avoiding you,” Dean finally said.

She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow to indicate that she was waiting for the explanation.

“Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so...I was concerned about where you went every third Thursday, so I followed you. And I...found out.” Dean looked straight at her, steeling himself for the expected anger.

“Huh. You didn’t trust me?” He could hear the hurt in her voice and it threw him off balance.

“I- what? No. That wasn’t it at all. I was concerned for your safety. For all our safety. I just needed to know that what you were doing wasn’t gonna put you or us at risk.” He tried to explain.

“So that’s why you stopped asking.” She said it as a statement, but Dean nodded anyway.

“Yeah.”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes studying him closely. Dean felt his face flush again and looked down, apparently absorbed in rolling the wraps just so. He looked up again when he heard the lock click, only to see her leave the room. He stared at the open doorway for long minutes, feeling utterly confused.

The next third Thursday, Dean determinedly stayed home. He queued up all of the Friday the 13th movies on Netflix and stocked up with pizza and beer. Half-way through the first movie, he turned it off and threw the half-eaten pizza on the desk. He sat in the dark drinking beer until he heard her door close. It was 3 a.m.

* * *

Things went back to normal, mostly. Dean did his best to never be alone with her. Sam seemed not to notice, but she certainly did. Every day he expected her at his door demanding an explanation, but nothing happened. The month went by quickly. Perhaps too quickly, to Dean’s mind.

He stood in the doorway to his room, leaning against the door jamb when she passed by on her way to the garage, duffel slung over her shoulder. 

“Have fun,” he said, determined to mean it.

She gave him a look that he was at a loss to interpret but said nothing. He stood there until he heard the roar of her bike fade. He was still standing there when Sam came by, backpack over his shoulder.

“Hey, Dean. I just got a call from Chad. Dunno if you remember him, he’s one of the Apocalypse World hunters. Anyway, he’s got a small nest of vamps on his hands so I told him I’d give him a hand-” Sam’s rambling was cut off when Dean held up a hand.

“Whatever, dude. Call if you need help,” he said, more gruffly than he had intended. He softened his tone. “Don’t get dead, ok?”

Sam smiled wryly and nodded, heading off to the garage. He kept a truck there for his own use. Dean heard the rumble of the truck’s engine fade as it went up the tunnel. He looked down at his watch. She would be at the club by now. If he left right then, he might still-

He cut that line of thought off. Determined to spend the evening more productively than last time, he brought his laptop to the library to do some research. For a while, he managed to keep himself occupied. Then he heard the roar of her bike, muffled from the garage. He looked at his watch. It was 1 a.m.

He felt as if his ears should be pointed with as hard as he listened for her footsteps. The rubber soles of her biker boots made surprisingly little noise. He heard her door open and close. Dean let out the breath he had been holding. Looking down at the book in front of him, he tried to go back to reading, but all he could see was her, the way he had seen her that first time on stage.

“You’re still up.” Dean jumped when he heard her voice behind him. He spun around in the chair, seeing her standing in the doorway, apparently dressed for bed.

“I was getting a glass of water and I saw the light,” she gestured in the general direction of the table lamps that lit the handful of books strewn across the table in front of Dean.

“Yeah. Just doing some research,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice even. 

She looked soft in her oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts. Nothing like the woman she was on stage.

“Sam asleep?” She half-turned as if she already anticipated returning to what she had been doing.

“On a case,” Dean said simply.

“Oh. Well, good night.” She gave a little wave and disappeared down the corridor. 

Dean heard the water running in the kitchen, then nothing until her door closed. He exhaled. He sat staring unseeing at the page of the open book in front of him for a long time before closing it and heading to bed. Just when he was about to fall asleep, he noticed that damn box had crept to the front of his mind.

The next couple of days were awkward, but thankfully the Bunker was large enough that they were able to mostly avoid one another. On the third day, Sam texted that the case was wrapped up and he was on his way home. Dean took the opportunity to seek her out, finding her in one of the storage rooms doing an inventory of spell ingredients. 

“Sam’s on his way back,” he said once she had noticed him.

“Oh. Good. Thanks for letting me know,” she replied, giving him a small smile.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean nodded, still not leaving. 

“What?” She looked up at him from where she sat on the floor, bottles and jars spread out around her.

“Oh, uhm, nothing, nevermind,” Dean shook his head and turned to go.

“Oh-kay then.” He heard her mutter after him.

Dean almost turned back but forced himself to keep going, all the way back to the garage where he had been giving Baby a tune-up when Sam’s message came in. He stood there looking down at the car’s engine, grease rag in his hands. He examined the box in his mind. It still refused to stay buried. He sighed and shook his head, wondering how he got himself into this mess.

* * *

The next third Thursday Dean gave up. He left before her again and sat in the corner, watching her performance. For those minutes, it was as if there were only the two of them. She wore tight-fitting leather pants, a leather corset, and boots that might have been biker boots if not for the four-inch heel. For those minutes, she was his whole focus. A single demon could have taken him by surprise, he was so focused on her. 

He watched her on the stage. He watched her while she made her way through the crowd. He watched her while she held court at the bar. He watched her so intently, she must have felt it, because she turned and their eyes met. 

Even from across the room, he could see her eyes widen in surprise. He should have left before this happened. Now he was unable to move, pinned in place by her eyes. Like a butterfly in a glass case. 

She crossed the space between them without ever breaking eye contact. She strode across the floor until she was right up in his space, standing between his legs, still looking into his eyes. 

Dean felt trapped. In a way, he felt relieved. After this, things would change, one way or another. Looking into her eyes, he had to remind himself to breathe. Were there still other people around? Dean had no idea. Everyone else had stopped existing at the moment when their eyes had met.

Still maintaining eye contact, she sat down and wrapped cool fingers around Dean’s wrist. 

“Why are you here, Dean?” Her voice filled his mind and for a moment he let himself drown in it.

“I had to see you,” he finally responded.

“You saw me earlier today. You see me every day. Why are you here, now?” She probed, wanting a different answer.

“I had to see you here. Like this.” Dean tried to explain, feeling like his words were not enough.

She nodded and finally broke eye contact, letting Dean breathe. At the crook of her finger, a girl dressed in the burlesque dress that Dean had come to understand was the uniform worn by the female employees, hurried over. They held a brief murmured conversation, then she looked back at Dean.

Once again, they were the only two people in the universe. He let himself drown in her eyes. 

“Come,” she said, her fingers wrapping around his and pulling him with her. 

Dean saw no one even though they crossed the entire club space. He remembered her disappearing with the brunette just when they came to the wall that backed the stage. A door led to a corridor that appeared to lead to the other side of the warehouse. The corridor was dotted with doors on either side. He followed her when she opened one of the doors and stepped through. 

She did something to the knob, then closed the door behind the two of them. Dean should look around the room, but all he could see was her. She had the same presence now that she had on the stage. All Dean could do was wait for her command.

She patted a stool by the door. 

“Take your clothes off and leave them here,” she told him.

Dean turned to watch her, even while his hands started undoing buttons. His eyes only left her for a short moment when he had to pull his t-shirt over his head. He watched her wander from one piece of furniture to the next, running her fingers over the soft leather of each. He wanted her to look at him, but she never did. When he was naked, he stood by the stool, waiting, his heart racing. 

She finally settled on a piece that Dean recognized from porn he had watched. Except then it was usually a woman bent over it being pounded from behind. He shook his head to dispel that image. He watched her wipe the leather down before beckoning him over. 

Dean almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to obey her silent command. With her directing him, he ended up on his hands and knees over the thing. A padded platform supported his torso so that he was actually quite comfortable. Soft leather cuffs attached to his wrists and thighs held him to the contraption.

While she was buckling the cuffs, she spoke to him.

“I understand now, Dean. I understand why you’ve been acting so weird, why you’ve been blushing and avoiding me. Did you even understand it yourself?” She mused out loud. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You have to understand, you brought this punishment on yourself.”

She crouched down in front of Dean, looking him in the eyes. Her cool fingers traced his cheekbone, then cupped his face. He felt himself leaning into her touch.

“You understand, don’t you, Dean? Why I have to punish you?” She cocked her head slightly, waiting for his reply.

Dean nodded, but she was still waiting. He had to speak. Finally, he managed to make words.

“Yes. I understand,” he told her, his voice husky with anticipation.

“Good. And you’ll take your punishment like a good boy, right?” 

“Yes,” was all Dean could reply to that.

She nodded and leaned in to place a kiss on his forehead. Dean closed his eyes, wanting only to feel.

He had no idea what to expect. He had seen her use a whip, a strap, and a paddle. He was afraid any of those might trigger some bad memories. His heart raced with all of the emotions that were no longer tightly packed away in their box. 

When he felt her hand on his ass, he gasped in surprise. It was just a gentle caress, cool fingers against his hot skin. Her touch left him for a moment only to return in the form of a sharp smack. 

Dean’s eyes shot wide open, and he grunted at the sting. How many strokes? She had neglected to tell him. He suspected it was on purpose. Before he had time to think too hard about it, her hands rained down slaps on his exposed ass so quickly there was no way to keep track.

Each sting left behind a spot of warmth that spread until it covered his entire ass, and down onto the back of his thighs. He focused on the image of her in his mind. How she had looked when she came over to him tonight. He reminded himself that he had deserved this punishment. When the tears came, he let them, feeling them trickle down his cheeks to drip onto the concrete floor. 

At first, he tried to fight the pain, to push it aside, until it stopped. Then he tried to get away from it, his arms and legs struggling against the restraints, to no avail. Finally, he let the pain wash over him, letting it out with each sobbed breath. It was nowhere near as bad as he had been through before, and he had deserved this.

When she stopped, his ass and thighs were on fire. He felt her breath on his skin, cool against the burn. When she came around in front of him again, he sought her eyes. His breath caught at the sight of the emotions in them. 

“You were such a good boy, Dean. I’m so proud of you.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper as if she had been the one crying.

“Thank you,” he replied.

“From now on, you’ll be better at communicating, won’t you?” Her tone was matter-of-fact as if it was fait accompli.

“Yes. I’ll do better,” Dean agreed.

“Good,” she nodded, satisfied with his answer.

Gentle fingers unbuckled the restraints and helped him off the bench. She led him to a loveseat that he had failed to notice before. She wrapped him in a blanket and helped him lie down, then sat and put his head in her lap. Her fingers combed through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. 

Dean shivered for a while, despite the blanket, the surge of emotions taking their toll on his body. Eventually, he started to feel like himself again. 

“Thank you,” he whispered again, his fingers squeezing her knee gently to emphasize his words.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, patting his arm.

After she had helped him dress, and taken them both out the back, Dean sat gingerly in the passenger seat of the Impala while she drove them home. They would have a lot to talk about in the coming days. He found he actually looked forward to it.


End file.
